No Sex in the City (10 page)

Lisa groans. ‘Ruby, you are
such
an idiot. Tons of people talk while they’re in the toilet.’

‘Do
you
?’

‘No!’

‘There you go. Because it’s disgusting.’

‘Of course it’s disgusting,’ I add. ‘Nobody’s disputing that. But I think Lisa’s point is that you turned away a guy who you were otherwise getting along with, who you were attracted to, who was ticking all your boxes—’

‘But who lacked basic hygiene.’

‘Would somebody please inform Ruby that most guys lack basic hygiene?’ says Nirvana.

‘Generalisation!’ I cry.

‘Of course it is,’ Nirvana answers, ‘but it’s also the truth.’

Ruby cocks an eyebrow at Lisa. ‘My dad and brothers are
very
clean, thank you very much.’

Nirvana leans in close to Ruby and, in a mock-sympathetic tone, says, ‘I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but if that’s true, your dad and brothers are freaks of nature.’

‘The point is, Ruby,’ Lisa says, ‘you turned away a guy over something that’s pretty small in the scheme of things.’

Ruby nurses her mug and shrugs. ‘That’s me. I can’t change who I am.’

‘No,’ Nirvana says excitedly, ‘but you can change
him
! That’s what we do, isn’t it? Meet a guy, fall hard and then work out what habits Prince Charming is going to have to give up and what habits he can keep!’ She laughs. ‘I’m slowly working on Anil’s makeover. He can go on about money and designer brands a bit too much sometimes.’

‘Oh, really?’ I say innocently. ‘We hadn’t noticed.’

Lisa kicks me under the table.

Ruby says, ‘What terrifies me is getting into a relationship thinking you can change all the bad habits, and then failing hopelessly.’

‘Which is why you don’t go in with that kind of attitude,’ Lisa says.

‘You can’t change people, Ruby,’ I say. ‘People spend their entire marriages trying to change each other, but it doesn’t work. Since when do people change? Ruby, you’ve got a case of OCD, dumping a guy for taking a leak.’

‘Oh, I doubt it was only a leak!’

‘Okay, information overload. Nirvana,’ I continue, ‘you’re falling for a guy while thinking of all the ways you can change him.’

Lisa shrugs. ‘So what you’re really saying, Ruby and Nirvana, is that we could replace the word “marriage” with “makeover”. To love, honour and change – is that how it goes?’

‘I’m not saying that you should change core values and qualities,’ Nirvana says defensively. ‘Just bad habits.’

‘And it’s a two-way street,’ Ruby says. ‘Although clearly men have worse habits than women.’

‘Good luck with that,’ I say. ‘You’re both fighting an uphill battle if you think you can change lifelong habits.’

Oh My God. Yasir seriously has a bad habit of leaving it to the last minute to sort out plans to see each other. For example, the other night we were speaking on the telephone before we went to bed and agreed we’ d have dinner the following night. The next morning I waited for him to contact me to make arrangements. By two o’ clock I still hadn’t heard from him. I called but he didn’t answer. So I left a text message. He called me at six, as casual as ever, asking me where I wanted to go and what time.

I was annoyed but tried to contain myself. ‘What took you so long to let me know we’re still on for tonight?’ I asked, trying to disguise the tension in my voice.

‘I was busy at work.’

‘It takes less than a minute to send a text. I wasn’t sure if I should catch the train home or wait for you in the city.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘On the train home.’

‘Oh. It would have been easier to meet up and then I could have dropped you off at home.’

YOU THINK?????

‘Exactly,’ I said, calmly and sweetly as ever.

And so the conversation went. I kept my cool but I was a bit pissed off. It’s been three weeks since we met. We talk almost every day. We catch up about twice a week. And I’ve noticed Yasir’s very carefree, easy-going and tardy.

The excesses of his character – nonchalant, unreliable, calm – clash with the excesses of my character – super-organised, a bit highly strung and over-punctual. It’s not that I’m neurotic or that he’s an irresponsible bum, it’s just that I don’t think he’s responsible enough and he doesn’t think I’m relaxed enough. We haven’t fought about it or anything. So far it’s only jokes (more on his side when he sees me clearly trying to curb my anger at the fact that he’s showed up forty-five minutes late to a dinner date).

So I take back all my indignation at Ruby and Nirvana. Yasir’s tardiness, lack of consideration and nonchalance MUST BE REFORMED.

Let the training begin.

‘Yes, sir, I understand. You want a pharmacy assistant who is either twenty or over thirty ... Oh, sorry, what was that? ... Thirty-two? ... Okay, so twenty or over forty, but nothing in between because you don’t want anybody going on maternity leave.’

I take down further instructions and then hang up the phone with a heavy sigh. Sometimes I hate dealing with clients. Some of them seriously think they’re above the law. When I explain the law to them, they laugh dismissively, seriously believing they’re not bound by any equal opportunity rules because they’re trying to run a business.

I put the file to one side and head to the kitchen to make myself a much-needed coffee. I pass Danny’s office on the way. He sees me, jumps out of his chair and follows me.

‘Coffee break?’ he asks.

‘Yep.’

‘I could do with one too. I’ve been on the phone with my wife since I got in. She’s convinced that having a baby will bring us closer together and solve all our problems.’

Ew, ew, ew! I do NOT want baby-making and Danny to figure simultaneously in my imagination.

‘She’s monitoring her ovulation cycle now. You know what that means? Oh well, at least I’ll be getting more—’

‘Danny!’ I shriek, almost dropping the milk. ‘There are some things I don’t want to know about! Get a counsellor or a best friend, but spare me the details, okay?’

For a moment he looks hurt. I turn my back to him and quickly make my coffee. My head tells me I don’t need to put up with this. But he’s the boss in a small company. We don’t even have a human resources officer. I’d have to take my complaint to him. Fat lot of good that’s going to be in getting the problem resolved.

I go back to my office, fuming.

It’s seven-thirty on a Friday night. I’ve just finished my jog around the block and am driving to the DVD store to hire a movie when the phone rings. It’s Yasir and my insides go all funny again, as they do whenever I think of him. We haven’t spoken since Wednesday. He was in Newcastle for a conference all day yesterday.

‘Hi!’ I say happily, exercise endorphins rushing through my system. I’m not even bothering to disguise my pleasure at hearing his voice. ‘I’ve just burnt four hundred calories! And I’m about to hire a movie and get some popcorn and a jumbo bag of Maltesers to cancel out all my hard work. What are you doing?’

‘Not much,’ he says, his tone uncharacteristically subdued. ‘I’m at home actually ... Um, can we talk?’

‘Yeah, sure, just let me pull over.’ I park in the closest side street. I start to panic. Has a family member died? Has he lost his job? Nothing prepares me for his next words.

‘Yesterday I took some time to think things through. I don’t want to hurt you by dragging this on any longer. It’s just ... I don’t see us together. I think you’re wonderful. You’re sweet and smart and beautiful and you make me laugh. But I think it’s best if we just stay friends. I’m really sorry.’

I’m gutted.

‘I–I don’t understand,’ I stammer. ‘I thought things were going really well. You said so yourself at dinner on Wednesday.’

There’s a long pause. Has he died on the phone?

‘Are you still there?’

He coughs.

I should be so lucky. Death would spare me the humiliation of rejection.

‘Like I said,’ he says uncomfortably, ‘I took some time out yesterday to think it all through. I can’t help the way I feel. I just don’t feel that spark ... It’s got nothing to do with you or anything you’ve done. I guess we weren’t meant for each other.’

I’m angry now. I feel like I’ve been led on. How can he have talked to me only two days ago about the future and said how much he loved my personality and flirted with me and now suddenly realise I’m wrong for him?

‘But I’d love to stay friends,’ he adds hopefully.

There are two ways to respond. With dignity. Or without.

Stay friends? Listen here, you moron, I’m almost thirty, I have all the friends I want in my life.

Why, oh why, did my parents have to bring me up to be so conscious of
self-respect
and
dignity
and
integrity
? How on earth do those virtues give you any sense of satisfaction?

‘I respect your feelings, Yasir,’ I say quietly. ‘If you don’t feel a spark, that’s fine.’ (I hope you develop a nasty rash all over your body.) ‘I wish you all the best.’ (And lose all your teeth, and ...)

‘Wow, you’re so ... mature about this,’ he says. Is that frigging doubt in his tone now? ‘I expected you’ d freak—’

Oh shut up. I cut him off. ‘Bye!’ I cry, then I hang up and burst into tears.

It’s a tough night. It’s hard to tell myself that this is a lesson to learn from, an experience to make me stronger. That Yasir wasn’t my destiny. It’s all meaningless in the face of the emptiness inside me, the hollowness of feeling so utterly happy one moment, filled with hope and big dreams and gorgeous, joyful optimism, then feeling empty, numb and confused in the next.

I want to run myself down, wallow in self-pity. Why is this happening to me? Aren’t I smart enough, interesting enough, good-looking enough? I spend most of the night feeling sorry for myself, then finally fall asleep, exhausted.

Thankfully I wake up angry. Nothing like anger to extinguish self-pity.

I’m a strong person. I’ve been burned before, in some cruel and rude ways, too – like the guy who told me that he couldn’t be with me because he had an ideal image of what his future wife’s physique would be and mine didn’t match up to it. I know I can get through this. I’ve always had an endless capacity for optimism. I might whine and vent with my girlfriends, but deep down I know that love is waiting for me somewhere.

What upsets me most is not the rejection but the fact that I was happy getting to know Yasir. And I believed he felt the same way. Now I’m left doubting my own intuition and judgement.

In the morning I message Senem with the news. She insists on coming over for a debrief, but I tell her not to bother. I’m not going to sit down and analyse every text message, email and conversation. Doing the ‘he said this’, ‘he said that’, and driving myself crazy in the process. So I go for a run around the park, hammering my feet onto the footpath, trying to sweat out the pain, searching hard for some endorphins.

When I return, I find my mother sitting in the lounge room, feet up on the coffee table, a mug of tea in one hand and a book in the other. I collapse next to her, drawing in some deep breaths. She glances up at me, smiles and then continues reading. We sit in easy silence for several moments, Mum reading, me staring at the swirls of colour on the rug, until I say, ‘Yasir’s not interested. It’s over. Whatever
it
was.’

She looks at me and frowns. ‘What happened?’

‘He called me last night. He just wants to be friends. Apparently he doesn’t feel that spark.’

‘Like
the click
?’

‘Mum, don’t even go there,’ I snap. ‘There’s a difference between not feeling anything towards a guy who can barely string together a few words of English, and Yasir, who has spent three weeks leading me to believe there was something between us.’

‘Did he explain himself?’

‘No.’ I wrap my arms around a cushion, hugging it close to my chest. ‘What annoys me is there’s no proper closure. I just have to accept the decision and move on.’

She suddenly utters a spectacularly taboo Turkish expletive, surprising herself and me in the process. We exchange glances and laugh. ‘You’re better off without him. Don’t we always say it’s best for these sorts of things to happen before you’re engaged? Look at Nuray – engaged for a year and then she ends up breaking it off because the guy’s a miser. All that heartache. All those wedding plans in a mess. And still we say she’s better off this way than marrying him and finding out too late. So you got hurt after three weeks? You’re one of the lucky ones.’

We both know she’s just as upset as I am and that she’s trying to make me feel better. I know that inside she’s probably wondering why I seem to attract such ‘bad
kismet
’. I know she’s thinking this even as she scoffs at Yasir’s idiocy and congratulates me for avoiding getting further involved with him.

I go and have a shower. When I later return downstairs to make myself some lunch, I overhear my parents talking. My mum is blowing her nose. Great. As if my own disappointment isn’t enough to deal with, I now have to cope with the fact that my parents are upset too. I hover at the kitchen door, drawn to listen even though I know it’s only going to make me feel worse.

‘She’s better off without him,’ my father says. ‘Who does he think he is, rejecting her? What’s there not to like about her? He’s an idiot!’

‘He told her he doesn’t feel a spark.’

‘Sparks and clicks and lightning bolts! What to do with this stupid generation? They want to go into cardiac arrest just to feel a sign that they’ve made the right decision. It’s because they’re gutless. The men nowadays are gutless! They want to have their fun, but when it comes to deciding about marriage, they’re like kids in a toy shop. They want everything and when you ask them to pick one, they can’t. They’re either greedy or too stupid to know what’s best for them.’

Wonderful. I’ve been reduced to a catalogue item at Toys R Us.

‘Esma is from a good family,’ he cries loudly, no doubt assuming I’m still in the shower and can’t hear his tirade. ‘She’s educated! She’s beautiful! She’s smart! Funny! Successful! Sincere!’ Not that he’s biased or anything. ‘And that gutless idiot rejects
her
!’